


Goodbye Dolly

by Hope



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-18
Updated: 2010-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hotel rooms have a way of aiding nostalgia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye Dolly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amand_r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/gifts).



> for amand_r's help_haiti bid. TYVM to rexluscus for beta.

When the credits for _Lawrence of Arabia_ stop scrolling, Jack turns off the TV and goes into the bedroom. It's dark and airless, which Jack has found seems to be a general rule for high rise hotel rooms throughout the universe. His screen-accustomed eyes are well suited to see the city lights when he twitches the curtain aside to peer down through the double-glazing.

The first suggestion of dawn hazes the smoggy curve of horizon, leaking between the dark blocks of other buildings; it's not long before Ianto usually wakes up anyway. The heavy curtain falls silently behind Jack as he steps away, blinking rapidly as if that'll make it easier to see through the black. His toes dig into the carpet as if the floor is some angle other than horizontal, and he needs to hold on just to get across the room.

When his knees hit the edge of the bed he tips the movement forward and crawls onto the firm, barely-yielding surface. His cock feels heavy between his legs, but it's probably not just gravity; being on his hands and knees always makes him feel a bit sexy.

The bedspread is crumpled somewhere at the foot of the bed, with just an over-starched sheet and woollen blanket covering Ianto's motionless body, the sharp chemical scent of industrial laundry detergent prickling into Jack's nose. He drops down to his side, wriggles closer, and breathes heavily on the back of Ianto's neck.

Ianto doesn't even twitch.

"Are you awake?" Jack whispers, making his lips stir the silky hair at Ianto's nape. It's faintly tufty with sweat, and no wonder; when Jack manoeuvres his hand into the bedding he finds that Ianto's wearing full-length pyjamas, the minx. Jack suspects he wears them just because he packs them; and only packs them because that's what one packs for an overnight trip: pyjamas.

It's too bloody hot, though, especially with woollen blanket and Ianto's body not used to sleeping clothed. He's all soft and warm and somnolent, like a feverish child.

"Are you awake?" Jack says, louder than last time, leaning his body into Ianto's.

Ianto huffs—too loud and irritable for him to be actually awake—and pushes back against Jack briefly before rolling forward again, face pressing into the pillow. His body heaves with another heavy sigh before settling back into the shallow rhythm of sleep.

"Ianto," Jack calls in a breathy whisper, mouth pressed against Ianto's ear. He rubs the hot cotton of the pyjamas against Ianto's belly, and pokes his tongue into the curled shell of Ianto's ear. "Are you awake?"

Ianto's shoulder cringes up and Jack dodges it expertly. He adjusts his arm slung over Ianto's waist, dislodging Ianto's blanket swaddling further, and then—because it's itchy against Jack's bare legs, dammit—kicking most of it down the bed anyway.

"Cannahave the fishal one," Ianto moans into the pillow, distressed, and Jack smirks. Ianto's always petulant when he sleep-talks. Which has nothing to do with the fact that he only ever does it when Jack's trying to wake him up, of course.

"C'mon," Jack murmurs, pushing his nose into Ianto's hair insistently, and finally Ianto groans with a little more self-awareness. Jack artfully backs off as Ianto pushes back against him, and Ianto tips over onto his back. His arm follows the movement, flung up to cover his eyes with his forearm, and Jack's vision has adjusted to the light enough to see Ianto's mouth bowed in a very pronounced frown.

Jack laughs softly, then slings a knee over to straddle Ianto's thighs. Ianto groans again in long-suffering protest. "Wha' happen' to the movie?" he slurs.

"It finished." Jack shrugs off his shirt as Ianto squints up at him from under a trailing pyjama cuff. Jack settles back comfortably before taking his cock in hand again; it's been half-hard since he took his pants off somewhere around Damascus. With his free hand Jack rubs Ianto's cock through the cotton pyjamas; it's like the rest of Ianto's body, warm and soft. Jack pushes the elastic waistband out of the way in order to touch more freely, then squeezes his knees against the instinctual flex of Ianto's torso.

Jack smiles, the movement between his legs taking his mind a short step back to the movie: maybe he should get a motorcycle again. His heart leaps in his chest at the thought, and he shouldn't be thrown _that_ quickly into visceral imagination; the non-linear temporality of the film must have got to him. The motorcycle fantasy spins out into the exhilaration of a crash, of resurrecting in the prickle of a hedgerow, and then proceeding to war…

Jack chuckles at the cinematic progression of his own idle fantasy, embodiment and objectification all at once, but Ianto pays him no mind; happy to let Jack drive, his neck loose and eyes closed as Jack works him. Jack would suspect he'd fallen asleep again if not for his cock stiffening rapidly in Jack's sliding grip, and the acceleration of his breathing. When Jack finally kneels forward then sinks back down onto Ianto's cock, Ianto pants rapidly, hands loosely holding Jack's hips. Ianto is tense and still beneath Jack for long moments before he recovers equilibrium, head still tipped back and mouth open.

Jack observes him before considering the blunt rush of sensation through his own body. It's got lighter in the room without Jack noticing, and now he can see the way Ianto's throat and face are ruddier than his belly, and the shine of his lips when he darts his tongue out to wet them. Jack rocks without rhythm, rotating his hips to get the feel of Ianto's cock spiking up into him; when he tightens his arse it feels unyieldingly thick and hard. He flexes his thighs, rocking experimentally back and forward, then straightens his spine and starts a leisurely ride.

The burn of friction spreads through his body like nerves coming back to life from pins and needles, prickling under his skin, making his hair stand on end. He closes his eyes to focus on the sensations, and they spark behind his lids like the flickering light of an old film, fuzzy-edged images from the past three-or-so hours still shuffling through his short-term memory, the rhythm of their reel matching the rocking of his hips. They're pleasant—Jack's mind flickering through impressions of blue eyes and flushed skin, and of the winsome, savage intensity that he'd idly touched himself to for the past few hours on the uncomfortable couch in the next room.

The recollections seem to slough away with each deep breath Jack takes, though—inhaling the chemical scent of the room, the funk of Ianto's morning breath and sleepy sweat—and listening to the minute, incidental sounds of bedsprings creaking, sheets rustling and the wet noises of sex. Reality wakes and flexes outward where Ianto's cock stokes it low in Jack's belly. The awareness rushes to the surface of Jack's skin to cluster around the sluggish touches of Ianto's hands on Jack's thighs and buttocks and belly.

When Jack leans forward to chase a different angle, Ianto pinches Jack's nipples between his fingertips, the soft cotton of Jack's teeshirt twisting coarsely around the tender flesh. Jack moans open-mouthed praise in response, the sound startlingly close in the dampened acoustics of the room. He rubs his cheek against Ianto's sandpapery jaw, the sound and sensation abrasive and sudden to his film-softened senses. His heart speeds to a gallop; he straightens his body enough to sit back firmly again, opening his eyes and guiding Ianto's sleep-clumsy hand to his cock.

Ianto's own gaze glimmers below the half-mast of his eyelids, observing the grip of his hand around Jack's pink cock; Jack pushes it through his fist with each rolling rock of his hips. Ianto squeezes and Jack grinds down more powerfully; they pass the pleasure of it back and forth for a handful of increasingly rapid cycles before Jack can no longer get breath enough to make any more noise.

"Come on me," Ianto says in response to Jack's wordless gasps, a sleepy sexy growl, his mouth open and his eyes darkly intent as they drag over Jack's bucking body. His pyjama top is rucked up and twisted, pale blue cotton a cool contrast to the warm-toned flush of his skin. Jack braces his hand against Ianto's belly, feeling the muscles tighten into a plane as Ianto thrusts up. When Ianto squeezes his cock again Jack's orgasm surges through his body. His arse grips Ianto's cock tightly even while his hips still roll and snap; like he's instinctively clinging on as he rides out the waves of pleasure. Jack's laugh tumbles through his open throat, his head tipped back, and when he looks back down again, gasping, his come has streaked up Ianto's pyjamas, clinging wetly to Ianto's face and jaw.

Ianto grins up at him in victory, smugness compounded by the sleepy languor of his gaze, and Jack shudders, laugh turning breathless when Ianto rubs his thumb wetly, deliberately, over the head of Jack's cock. Jack curls his body forward again, enjoying the stretch and burn of the muscles in his thighs and lower back as he rests his forearms on the pillow, on either side of Ianto's head. The change in position presses a new angle of Ianto's cock in Jack's arse, and makes it impossible for Ianto to keep his grip. Instead Ianto slides his hands around to Jack's back, and then down to firmly cup his arse. He thrusts his hips up powerfully.

Jack hums approvingly, and kisses Ianto lightly, enough to slick his own lips with his come, but Ianto's too distracted now to really respond with any sort of coordination above the waist. Jack smiles, the sweet ache of fucking and coming still invigorating what feels like every muscle in his body. He holds Ianto's face in his hands, enjoying the unshaven prickle of Ianto's jaw against his palms, and the insistent ache of Ianto's stiff cock stretching his arse as Ianto's rhythm intensifies.

Ianto's eyes flutter closed when Jack's thumb sweeps through his own come, spreading it across Ianto's skin, rubbing it into Ianto's plump lower lip. Jack kisses him again, tasting salt and spunk, and works his thumb in between Ianto's teeth.

Ianto makes a helpless sound, too high-pitched to be a moan, and thrusts his cock up into Jack with more urgency as he chews and sucks on Jack's thumb. When Jack leans further forward to murmur encouragement into Ianto's ear Ianto comes as well, body bucking then held tight as coiled wire, fingers like rivets in Jack's flesh. His jaw clamps down, biting into the heel of Jack's palm as Ianto grunts and chokes and moans around the firm press of Jack's thumb, his cock spilling hot and wet in Jack's arse.

Chest heaving under Jack's weight, Ianto lets his jaw slacken—or perhaps his mouth has to open wider to take in his deep breaths—at any rate, Jack withdraws his thumb and rubs it at the corner of Ianto's mouth, and his lips and chin, mixing more of Ianto's spit with Jack's drying come.

The sporadic rhythm of Ianto's panting breaks momentarily as Ianto closes his mouth to swallow; his subsequent controlled huff is damp against Jack's own mouth.

"Time is it?" Ianto asks, sentence truncated by his breathlessness.

Jack gives him another kiss, slippery. "Time to get up."

Ianto groans as Jack tips off him, flopping to his side with his arm and leg still curled over Ianto's body. Ianto rolls into him, tucking his face into the convenient nook under Jack's jaw. He smells like come and sleep and sweat, and his hands push up under Jack's teeshirt to pet Jack's waist with a lack of coordination prompted by the new wave of lassitude.

"Not going anywhere," Ianto mumbles, and Jack can feel Ianto's eyelashes flutter against the skin of his throat before stilling closed, his body going lax again under Jack's limbs.

The heavy curtains are no match for the smoggy morning light, tinting the room now with an oily brightness that makes the blue cotton of Ianto's disheveled pyjamas look like aged paper. Jack breathes the moment in for a little while longer, then rolls out of the bed and leaves the room.

His pants are still draped over the arm of the couch, and Jack pulls them on before sitting down again. It's darker in here, with just the glow of the screen. Jack gets hold of the controls and starts scrolling through the menu. He's got access to _The 20s - Your Favourite Millennium_ entertainment suite for at least another twenty hours.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1681369.html


End file.
